


Unicorns

by Fadefox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Mage-Templar War, Post-DA2, does not contain actual unicorns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-08-11 01:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadefox/pseuds/Fadefox
Summary: Post-DA2.Just another day in the countryside.





	Unicorns

She can't turn her eyes away from the carnage. From the body parts littering the pavement, the smoke rising up from charred corpses in coffins of still-smouldering armour, the flaming sword sigil on the front obscured by ash and blood. The only thing worse than the sight of it is the sound: Not even the screams but the hiss of steel tearing through the air before meeting metal or flesh, the sizzle of electricity – and the _humming_ in the air the origin of which she can't place, deeply unsettling as it resonates in her very bones.

Despite her years Caroline has never seen such violence. Even in times of war like these battles are rare in the countryside. There's the occasional brawl at the local inn, or some lonesome lost raider attacking travellers on the road into town. Both end bloody sometimes but not like this, nothing like this.

 

It was mid-morning when the templars marched into town. In their beaten, partly even incomplete uniforms the group still made for an unusually impressive sight in these remote parts, people stopping in their tracks, leaning out of their windows to observe the strangers who made their way down the main road.

They started asking questions after an initial look around. She didn't catch the exact words, trying to appear busy with her work at the fruit stand to avoid drawing their attention - whatever business had brought these men here, she felt it might be best to stay out of it. Still, it soon became clear they were looking for someone, gesturing across their metal-framed faces as they decribed them, then holding up bags of coin, a reward for those with information. The reaction of most of the townsfolk was the same: hesitation, then the shake of a head or a shrug followed by a hasty escape from the conversation.

The mood was tense, everyone hoping for these intruders to soon leave the way they came, even if they didn't threaten anyone, didn't seem to be looking for trouble with the locals. Then, without warning, it all changed with the bark of an order. Swords were ripped from their sheaths and rust-stained pieces of armour squeaked as the group charged across the market place.

 

*

 

No one could say when _exactly_ the healer had moved into town. He had kept to himself and on the rare occasions he had been spotted at all it was only from a distance. The man would be gone as soon as he had appeared, not leaving anyone a chance to approach him.

It had to have been a year or two after the war broke out. And what a mess that was; rogue mages and templars that had broken with the chantry suddenly roamed the land, slaughtering each other and everyone with the bad luck to end up caught in the middle. It didn't take long for wide stretches of land to become more or less abandoned, so travellers, sometimes fugitives themselves, who passed through town would report. Some rebel groups didn't hesitate to claim these areas for themselves, others burned everything they came across to the ground in a blind rage. Each time someone brought news from afar they were more terrible than the last. Half the country was in uproar - but for the time being their little corner of it remained safe and comfortable, the war a thing of stories and speculation, not a daily reality to face. No sign of templars or mages, no fighting whatsoever - not that there was much around to fight over anyway.

Thus, despite the more severe developments elsewhere, this elusive new neighbour had been the talk of the town for a while instead. The man hadn't even been to the market - and she would have known, spending most of her days there - apparently gathering or hunting his own food, crafting whatever he needed himself. A bit of a hermit then, people had concluded, and left him alone as he seemed to prefer.

What had finally made the man cross the distance he'd kept from them had been a dramatic affair.

It had begun with desperate shouts for help resounding in the streets. Martin, the local smith, had been carrying his wife Elena down the main road, half her dress hanging in shreds off her side, both covered in blood. The deep claw marks across her body had told the story all too clearly: She had come upon a bear while gathering mushrooms in the forest and, lucky as she had been for making it back far enough for her husband to find her, her condition had deteriorated fast, pale limbs dangling lifelessly as Martin sobbed into her hair. People had come rushing out of their houses, some bearing bandages or bowls of water, anything to help out. Caroline herself had grabbed an old sheet and spread it out on the ground. As they had set the girl down on it to take care of her injuries, not daring to move her any more than absolutely necessary, the crowd of helpers and onlookers had been parted rather roughly by a pair of large hands, only to reveal the tattered, blond man who had settled down at the edge of town.

The man hadn't wasted any time on talk and introductions, had simply dropped to his knees next to the unconscious woman, shoved aside any helping hands, bandages and rags of the dress and, just as Martin had been about to drag this ill-mannered stranger away from his wife by the collar, his hands had begun to glow an eerie green. That had been enough to stun everyone into silence, staring in awe as the severe wounds had slowly closed beneath his palms. Once he had finished his work, the glow fading away as Elena's breathing grew steadier again, he had simply sat there with his head hung low, long, shaggy hair falling into his face. As if in defeat, despite just having saved a life.

No one had known what to say. So that was why he had avoided everyone then: He was a mage. But he obviously had no interest in taking over or burning down the village, so what did it matter?

What mattered was that Elena was _alive_.

Her little daughter, face still wet with smeared tears, had been the one brave enough to break the silence, throwing her arms around the man's neck as she exclaimed a loud "Thank you, _healer_!" followed by a bright smile around the gap in her teeth. After a moment of confusion he had smiled back.

They had called him that ever since.

It had been convenient to have a healer in town. Everyone had appreciated his help and that he never asked for payment, only admonished them to be more careful next time with a stern look that he could never keep up for long. While he had occasionally ventured out into public after that fateful day he had still lived a mostly isolated life unless someone sought him out.

 

*

 

Unlike the healer's arrival the elf's had been a _very_ memorable event. Strangers coming to town was always special but the sight of the tan elf with white hair, foreign-looking spiky armor, white markings on his skin and a sword almost as big as himself had truly been extraordinary. People had, not very subtly, gone to fetch their family and friends to bear witness, knowing no one would believe their description of such a man if they hadn't seen him with their own eyes. There had been a somewhat hostile aura about him, a constant scowl on his face just as unpleasant as the spikes on his armour. The deep, curved scar on the left side of his chin, mirroring the white stripe on the right, had done nothing to soften that impression.

Naturally, when he had asked about " _a blond human, tall. Stubble. Long face. Pointy nose. Probably wears feathers. Patronising_ " he had quickly found himself surrounded by a group of broad-shouldered locals, inquiring what business he had with the man. The elf had, much to their dismay, not been particularly impressed, thrown up his gauntleted hands in annoyance, not fear, and groaned that he meant him no harm. Dubious of his intentions they had escorted him to the healer's house to make sure of that.

Caroline wasn't certain what exactly had transpired that night but the next day the healer had come to her fruit stand to purchase a large quantity of apples, the elf in tow. The blond had been in high spirits despite the black eye he was sporting, matching the large bruise on the elf's jaw bone.

"Friend of yours?" she had asked, motioning at the warrior.

"Anything but that," the healer had laughed and flung an apple over his shoulder at the surly elf - who caught it with ease.

They had left it at that.

Fenris, for that was the elf's name as she had concluded from overhearing their conversations (which usually consisted of the healer talking and the other either humming in agreement or rolling his eyes and huffing), had turned out to be a permanent addition to their town. People had been wary of him at first but then decided that if the healer deemed him trustworthy he probably was. A case of a bark worse than bite, apparently.

It hadn't been until learning the elf's name that Caroline had noticed the healer had never properly introduced himself. To no one. So she had asked him about it one day, finishing off a cup of tea in his little hut after he had cured her of a particularly nasty cough that wouldn't fade. He had looked pained at the question, drawing together his brows. "What does it matter? You have come up with something to call me," he had tried to evade.

"It's only fair," she had declared, "that we know your name if you know ours'. You've been living here for years! It was very impolite not to introduce yourself to your new neighbours in the first place, young man."

He had laughed at that, candlelight catching in the flecks of grey peppering his stubble, and sat down beside her, looking thoughtful. "If it really matters so much to you... I'll tell you. But please, keep calling me 'Healer', I've gotten so used to that." She could live with that, she had assured him.

With a faint smile, and then a sigh, he had declared, "It's _Karl_."

"That is good to know, _healer_ ," she had replied with a smile of her own. The name didn't seem to fit him anyway.

Fenris had returned a moment later, two nugs dangling from his metal-clad fist by their ears, and she had left to take care of her own dinner.

The two had been reclusive, sure, but they had become a part of the village nonetheless, never turning down anyone who asked for their help, and never got in any trouble.

Until today.

Today, the healer doesn't heal.

Today, he kills.

Of course, she tells herself, he would have this kind of power. They all do, that is why the chantry teaches that magic is dangerous. But it is different to see it in person, to watch those hands that cured so many illnesses, mended so many wounds, suddenly cause such destruction. To know a mage as a person, and a kind one at that, not just as a barely real creature of stories and fairytales who can easily be dismissed as the villain.

It's not as big a surprise to see the elf fight. He carries his sword at all times as if he's paranoid about someone attacking him out of the blue. Still, watching him actually wield this giant weapon, tearing clean through human bodies, is another matter than him simply bringing it along when he helps patch up a roof or fix a broken fence after a storm - he is good with physical work it turned out, so much stronger than he looks.

The worst part of it, she reconsiders, is neither the sight of the bloodshed nor the sounds.

The worst part is, that she cannot bring herself to care. That she has seen the _templars_ charge at them, weapons drawn and intent on killing, not the other way around. That she knows they strike them down in defense. She has no idea what they have done to be hunted and attacked like this, and she _should_ wonder but she does not, would in fact rather not know.

The worst part is, that she worries about them when they stumble against each other, panting back to back, surrounded by their aggressors - too many, way too many for the two of them to handle alone.

Just when Caroline is certain that this is it, wants to turn away in horror so she doesn't have to witness the gruesome end, something lights up blue. At first she thinks it is another spell, the mage's hands gathering more energy from the Fade, but then the two split up again and she realises it's _them_ , both of them, from head to toe. Fenris shines a bright blue and he moves so fast she believes she can see through him for a moment, ripping through his enemies like the lightning the mage has conjured up before. One by one they join their fallen brethren on the ground.

The healer doesn't glow all over like Fenris does. It looks more like he's cracking open, like a power is forcing its way out from within and he wields it mercilessly against the enemy, throwing spells left and right but also reaching out, swiftly snapping one man's neck with his bare hands as if it was a twig.

Any moment now, she tells herself, any moment now she will wake up. She will wake up from this nightmare and the first thing she'll do is confirm that the healer and his anything-but-friend are at home, preparing breakfast in their remote little hut that smells of elfroot and candles and leather, and no one and nothing is glowing blue except for the small stash of lyrium potion bottles the healer keeps on a shelf, 'for emergencies'.

Bottles that surely _aren't_ in shards on the cobble of the market, emptied in a haste a short while ago, because there was no 'emergency' at the market. The healer had no reason to bring them here.

It doesn't make sense.

But nothing makes sense today, she thinks, as the last templar drops to the ground and blue light flickers as Fenris goes down beside him. The healer is with him in a flash, quite literally even, glowing cracks closing as his hand fills with green healing energy.

When none of the templars stand back up again and she is sure all blue is gone for good she hurries over to them, through the obstacle course of bodies and severed limbs, sticky blood squelching beneath the soles of her shoes. As she crouches down beside the healer he hastily unstraps and pulls off the gauntlet on Fenris' arm to heal a narrow but bone-deep gash that runs partly beneath it.

"Are you alright?" Caroline asks, even though they're clearly more alright than the dismembered foes around them. "What was that? Why did they attack you?"

The healer doesn't answer, just stares down at Fenris as the elf slumps against his shoulder with a breathy moan, exhausted. She remembers this expression, remembers it from the day he first revealed to them what he is - or part of it at least, it seems.

Agitated, she presses on, "You were... _glowing_. What was- What _are_ you two?" Her eyes trail over their still trembling bodies, no signs of blue left but the bruises they took away from the fight. Head low, the mage slides his hand down Fenris' bare, now healed arm, intertwining their bloodied fingers. He rubs his thumb over the white marking on the elf's limp palm, smearing the blood more than wiping it away with his own dirty fingertips as he whispers:

"Mistakes."

**Author's Note:**

> I was struggling with finding a title for this (...as in, back in 2015) and played some Inquisition to clear my mind - and Dorian decided to provide me with some perfect inspiration. Thank you, Dorian, I can't imagine anything more fitting.
> 
> There's a lot of blanks to fill in here, which is fully intentional. One thing I did mean to make a little clearer but that just wouldn't fit in anywhere is the fact that Fenris is also being hunted because rogue templars are after the lyrium in his skin (and took a sample on his chin).
> 
> Not entirely happy with it but I refuse to change the overall structure and I've been staring at it for so long now, it's time to let it go.


End file.
